We keep laughing here. Every time we're admitted, someone asks me how long I've been working here. Yeah, working. Not been coming as a parent. Every. Single. Time. Yesterday I was in the Emergency Room with someone and the ER doc asked me. And other frequent flyer moms have said the same thing.
I wonder what it is. Is it that we've gotten so used to this place, so comfortable with it, that we wear a different air? Where sometimes things "get" to us, but we never let it show? We're not looking around trying to orient ourselves 'cause we've walked these halls Too. Many. Times, for too many hours? Or we've already faced horrors that most people don't even know about. Maybe that's it.
But yesterday I also got a wake-up call, a reminder. I watched as a mom's face drained of blood when her son was put on a monitor and his sats settled at 84. Yeah, 84, not 94. I've seen 84 and worse a whole lot. Now, I've never liked it, but it's something I've gotten somewhat used to seeing. Yes, we mediate it. He recovers. We move on. But this mom hadn't ever seen it before.
And all of a sudden, I felt myself back in the American Fork ER almost six years ago. What I innocently thought would be a few hours in an emergency room turned into an ambulance ride up to a hospital I only sorta knew about. And then a ten-day hospital stay. I remember that surreal feeling of not knowing what was ahead, of changing plans, of not being able to make plans, of trying to adjust to a whole new paradigm.
Aaron did recover. This child will, too. But it made my heart ache, honestly more for the parents than for the child, although I hurt for him, too.
So I don't work here, although I think I'd like to someday. I like to think I could add something, help someone. 'Cause I've walked these halls many times, for many hours. And I remember...